


Scents, Subterfuge, and Angel Wings

by Annabelle_W



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, First Time, M/M, POV First Person, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-06-28 06:56:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 18,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19807042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annabelle_W/pseuds/Annabelle_W
Summary: Just before Dean is chosen as the mate of the Archangel Gabriel, he begs Sam to rescue him.  How though?  How do you go up against someone so powerful?  How do you even get close?That's when learns of a job opening at Gabriel's mansion.  That has possibilities.  Plus, he's working underneath a gorgeous, enigmatic seraph named Castiel . . .





	1. Chosen

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by "He Doesn't Play Much, But When He Does, He Plays For Keeps" by rospeaks, an absolutely beautiful, magical work that I would recommend to anyone. I've kept several of the same elements, but this is very much my own story. (Guess that makes it fanfiction of fanfiction).

A gong sounds and we drop to our knees. Row after row of men and women between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five. Anyone of the required demographics currently residing within the Nebraskan city who had neither the opportunity nor the inclination to slip away before being dragged off to the green lawn in front of City Hall.

Dean and I don't live here, but we go where the Bureau sends us, so for the past few weeks we've been staying at one of the local motels, researching a string of unusual deaths, looking for a possible connection between them. Turns out, sometimes a coincidence is just a coincidence. But one savvy murderer took advantage of that reality, pushed his ex in front of a train at the same spot where so many mangled corpses had been found. He'll spend the rest of his life in prison.

My brother and I were enjoying the profuse commendation of the mayor when the alert came through that an angel has decided on a midwestern mate and that this city is among those he's visiting in search of one. Once she came down from the high of prospective illustrious visitor, the mayor ushered us outside to line up with all of the other potential captives. Sorry, mates.

The irony isn't lost on me that one of us could lose our freedom as a reward for capturing a killer. (We would have been long gone if we hadn't stayed to accept the praise of Mayor Whatsherface.)

Speaking of the lovely mayor, she's traipsing down the Hall steps in company with a throng of local politicians and reporters and, of course, our honored guests, the angels. So many pairs of wings. So many shining feathers refracting the effulgent afternoon sunlight, making it blindingly impossible to guess which of them seeks a mate--or even to count how many winged tourists accompany him. Or her?

A helpful cloud dims the sun, unveiling five seraphs, whose white and pink (or red) plumage reveals their status as the already-mated children of the Archangel Gabriel. They're accompanied by radiant humans who must be their mates and six, no seven nephilim, whose tiny pink wings declare them to be the already-mated grandchildren of, again, Gabriel.

I lean forward. Is it possible . . . ?

The angels pause at the bottom of the steps, separate into two lines, clearing the path for a small but imposing figure. Leather jacket. Piercing eyes. Light, curly hair. Ageless face. Six gigantic black wings edged with red.

It is.

I feel a bit faint.

Gabriel.

The Archangel Gabriel is seeking a mate.

Unlike their progeny, archangels can survive the loss of their mates, but that doesn't mean they love them any less. Gabriel famously swore that he would never mate again after the death of Kali, his second mate--all but the name of his first mate (Sigyn) has disappeared into the depths of history--seven hundred years ago.

He must finally be over her.

All my irritation over being forced to participate in this ancient, archaic ceremony fades into intellectual curiosity. I'm a first-hand witness to an actual historic event. Five years ago, I watched on my tiny dorm tv as Raphael's son Uriel wrapped his wings around a beautiful ebony woman from Nairobi and kept her hidden from view until his plumage brightened from dull black to shimmering white patterned with green. She stepped out of her feathered cocoon disheveled, glowing, her adoring gaze glued to her new mate. Two years ago, Dean and I were taking break from researching for a case, only to have our rerun of Futurama interrupted by a breaking news announcement that MIT student Kevin Tran had been chosen by Gadreel, one of Michael's many blue-eyed (and now blue-winged) grandsons. I recall glaring at the screen, annoyed that some random nephilim's mating was deemed so important that it broke into Fry and Leela's argument over robosexuality. 

This, though . . . .

There are only four archangels in the entire world. No one knows where they came from, how they came into existence, whether they are actually brothers, or how old they are. I will be able to tell my grandchildren (should I ever have any) that I was there when the great Archangel Gabriel chose his third mate. Or, at least, that I was present at one of the cities he searched for one. Still, I hope . . . . 

There's a bruising pressure on my arm.

Dean's gripping me, seeking my attention. "Sam."

"What?!" I snap in an irritated whisper.

"Promise me something," he mutters, urgently. "If he takes me, promise me you'll rescue me." He swallows. "Even if I don't want to go, even if I'm brainwashed, promise me you'll come."

I gape. "What makes you so certain he'll pick you?"

I expect a smug retort about Dean's (undeniable) hotness, followed by smirking comment that anyone would want a piece of that. Instead, he crosses his arms, staring as Gabriel makes his way down the first row of young adults, pausing to sniff the throat of each one. Dean gulps. "I'm not . . . I don't . . . Just promise me!"

"Okay. In the extremely unlikely event that the world's most popular archangel chooses you to be his mate, I'll make like a knight in shining armor and come save you." I roll my eyes.

Dean swats me.

I swat back.

We grin.

Dean turns back to watch the archangel's progress, his smile fading as Gabriel moves down the lines, drawing ever closer. His face pales. He fists his hands, unfists them, rubs them--hard--down his thighs, sweat dampening, darkening the denim. He bites his lips.

I frown, pat his shoulder.

He looks up at me, visibly attempts to smooth the worry from his features. Almost succeeds. Until, inexorably, his eyes are drawn back to progress of our prospective suitor, now silently rejecting a girl in the row before ours.

Dean rakes his nails up his jeans. 

Gabriel walks over to the first person in our row. An attractive, dark-haired man who looks rather younger than twenty-five.

Dean's eyes squeeze shut.

Gabriel moves on. 

Dean lets out a breath. His fingers start tapping unevenly on his legs.

When Gabriel is two people away from us, Dean turns to me again, panic intensifying the green of his irises. He grabs my hand. Just before the angel steps in front of him, he grits, "Promise me, Sam!"

I squeeze his hand. "I promise."

One of Gabriel's charcoal feathers brushes my arm as he leans over my kneeling brother, buries his face in his neck.

I hear a quiet moan.

Gabriel jumps back, his eyes blazing the cherry-pink of his dynasty. He drops to his own knees, embraces Dean with arms and wings, concealing him entirely.

Muffled words, rustling feathers.

A rhythmic pulsing.

No.

My brother is getting raped right in front of me.

"No!" The scream rips from my throat as I push forward.

Strong arms stop me, prevent me from rising. Pink-winged angels close ranks in front of me. Gabriel's nephilim grandchildren were nicknamed Cupids because they favor the love industry: wedding cakes, flowers, Hallmark cards, even matchmaking services. They must be hypocrites, since this coercion is the exact opposite of romantic.

I peer between blushing quills, watch the pounding accelerate, lose rhythm, stutter, stop.

A hint of gold appears near the top of Gabriel's spine. The color spreads, washing out all of the dull black until all six wings sparkle golden in the sunlight. Even the scarlet edging glows brighter.

A cheer rings out at this visual proof of a successful mating. Cameras flash. Excited chattering commences.

I refrain from snarling, keep my eyes on the still-covered pair.

More rustling feathers, more muffled voices.

Gabriel folds his glimmering wings, rises to his feet, holds out a hand for his new mate.

Dean takes it, stands. He gazes down at his angel, face glowing with joy, contentment. Love.

He's already brainwashed.

"Dean!" I brush off the loosened hands gripping my shoulders, leap to my feet.

My brother doesn't turn, doesn't hear me. Doesn't care?

"Dean?" I push past the nephilim, reach for my brother.

A familiar weight stops me. The same individual who wouldn't allow me to stop my brother's rape won't allow me to prevent his abduction.

I struggle desperately, hopelessly, uselessly.

Angels are so much stronger than humans.

Gabriel clasps both of Dean's hands, flaps his wings, disappears. 

With a rushing roar of gusting wind created by twelve pairs of powerful wings, his retinue follows.

Immobilizing hands slowly slacken, slide down my arms.

I throw them off, spin.

All I catch is a glimpse of vivid blue eyes and dusky wings before my captor is gone.

Gone.

Like my brother.


	2. Alone

I stumble back to our motel room. Make that my motel room. Only mine now and for the foreseeable future. A reality made abundantly clear by the stark, conspicuous absence of Dean's belongings.

All but one. The keys to his beloved Impala lie mournfully discarded on my battered paperback copy of The Count of Monte Cristo. Guess Dean's new mate doesn't think he needs a car when he can be flown everywhere.

The thought makes me want to throw something.

I grab a beer before flopping on the bed furthest from the door, clicking on the tv. 

A far too perky announcer chatters " . . . can now confirm the identity of the archangel's new mate. Dean Winchester is a thirty-year-old FBI agent from Kansas. He was . . . ." Her botoxed face slides to one side, leaving room for a slightly blurry video of my brother standing beside Gabriel, smiling sappily down at him.

I click the tv back off, fling the remote across the room. It makes a satisfying thunk, leaves a dent in the green striped wallpaper.

My phone rings. More accurately, it vibrates so insistently it nearly bounces off the corner of the bed where I tossed it upon stomping in.

I really want to throw the tiny, interrupting rectangle in the same direction as the remote, but the screen declares the caller to be my boss.

"Bobby?" I try to sound marginally less surly than I feel.

"I hear congratulations are in order!" Special Agent Singer manages to project a tone that is half boisterous, half accusatory.

I wince. "I guess."

He laughs. "Never know what you boys are going to get up to. An angel mate." I can almost hear him shaking his head. "Anyway," he raises his voice a bit, "I figure you need a couple weeks to celebrate, Winchester style, but I'll expect you back in Washington on the sixth."

Glad my job at least hasn't disappeared on me. "Yes, sir."

"Good. I'll introduce you to your new partner when you get here. I think you'll love working with Agent Leahy." He hangs up without waiting for my reply.

Not like I really have one.

I drop the phone back on my bed, sigh. He's right about one thing. I really would love working with Agent Leahy--Eileen. Far too much. Dark hair framing a beautiful face, expressive hands, eyes brimming with intelligence. Dean has teased me more than once about my little crush.

Dean.

I drop my head into my hands. How? How? How am I going to get my brother back?

*

Copious amounts of alcohol fail to provide the answer, but they do numb the loneliness.

Dean has been all I have for so long.

Mother, father, partner, best friend. So much more than just my brother.

Has been ever since a serial killer slipped into my nursery and offed my mother, leaving Dad so obsessed with finding him that he neglected Dean and me when he wasn't training us to be his hunting partners. 

I've always suspected that the only reason why he wasn't kicked out of the Bureau (he acquired the requisite degrees and skills to join the FBI--they don't normally admit mechanics--upon learning that Mary's death bore a remarkable similarity to other murders all across the country) was his excellent record of solving murder cases and tracking down murderers. 

Dean was so joyful the day the FBI awarded him his official badge. He lived to bring killers to justice. How could he possibly be coping in his new, leisurely life as the trophy spouse of one of the most powerful individuals in the world? Sure, he looks happy in every news report to cross my screen. But.

I drop my empty beer bottle to join the forest of glass on my motel room floor.

But, it can't possibly be real.

Here's real: Dean smiling through his tears as we celebrated finally taking down Mom's killer and his band of criminals, even as we mourned the fact that it cost Dad his life. Turns out, the perpetrator was a human descendant of Archangel Lucifer--archangel's beget seraphs, seraphs beget nephilim, and nephilim beget humans. This guy--Azazel--was not pleased to learn that his parents will stay young and beautiful forever while he ages and dies. The only clue of his heritage were eyes that glowed yellow in anger, lust, or excitement. He started injecting infants will angel blood in an attempt to create his own line of part-angel children. Then he started stabbing any mothers who caught him. (Not the fathers, though--guy was a misogynist, apparently). Two decades later, he sought out these children. He stabbed my girlfriend to see if I would manifest any angelic traits. All that happened was my decision to apply to the Bureau out of a passionate, revenge-fueled desire to hunt him down. 

And now . . . .

Jess is still dead. Dad's dead. Dean's gone.

Gone.

I turn on the news out of a maudlin hope to at least glimpse my brother's face.

I do.

There he is, wandering the streets of Shanghai with his celebrity husband and entourage of pink-winged step-children and -grandchildren. He and Gabriel catch sight of something, exchange words, laugh. Crinkled eyes, open face, wide grin. 

Gushing anchorwomen debate whether Dean should be considered handsome or pretty. Agree that Gabriel's a lucky man. Archangel. 

All of the beer I ingested today sloshes in my stomach, threatens a reappearance. 

Before it does, one of the ladies turns to the camera, "Anyway, we can report that the happy couple will be taking up residence in Dean's home state of Kansas. Gabe has an estate there."

Kansas. 

They're moving to Kansas.

Won't they need people? Servants or whatever?

I jump out of bed. Suddenly, I have a purpose.

*

The woman at the gate takes my ID, mutters "Sam Wesson" as she enters my name into her computer. A moment later, she looks up, smiles. "Personnel parking is around back. Go through the servant's entrance and enter the first door to your left. Have a good day." She returns her gaze to her screen in a clear dismissal. 

Yes, I'm using an alias. A couple years ago, Dean and I went undercover at corporation named Sandover that was seeing an inexplicably high number of suicides. A man in upper management--Adler--learned the hard way that coercing people into killing themselves will land you in jail. Anyway, thanks to the federal government, our identities were real. Would pass any background check. And were never erased on the off chance we might need them again. 

Sam Wesson's resume says that he worked part time at a hotel for two years while attending college. The--real--hotel can confirm this. Can even provide documentation if needed. (Yes, my bosses were thorough). I was hoping this would be enough to get me a job at Gabriel's estate. Guess it was.

*

The indicated room is filled with people--humans--milling about, chattering quietly. Familiarly. Do they know each other?

"Used to be just a temp job about every two or three years," a voice speaks from my left. "Worth it, though. Great pay, amazing benefits. We all jumped at the chance to work here permanently."

I look down. A short, unassuming man hovers at my elbow. "So, you're all local?"

He shrugs. "If by local, you mean from the midwest." A slight smile. "Like I said, it's a great job." His gaze wanders across the room. "Plus, it's a great place to meet girls. I'm hoping Becky will say yes this year." He indicates a small, mousy woman, who manages to combine a shy visage with a motormouth. "I'm Chuck."

"Sam." I open my mouth to ask him how things work around here, but, before I can, the room goes still, silent.

A seraph walks in. Calm demeanor, tan trench coat, hands behind his back, cocked head.

I stare. I'd expected . . . I don't know, a housekeeper with a grey bun and a British accent.

Not the midnight wings of an unmated angel. Not huge blue eyes, tousled black hair, a tanned face so beautiful I'm questioning my heterosexuality.

A soft chuckle titters beside me. "Might want to pick your jaw off the floor," Chuck mutters.

I pop my mouth shut, ignore my heated cheeks.

"My name is Castiel. I run Gabriel's house," a deep, gravely voice informs us. He starts walking amongst my new colleagues, exchanging words with them, likely giving them positions, directions. His dark feathers flutter gently as he moves.

Why is a seraph this gorgeous still single?

Plus . . . . Something niggles at me. Something about blue eyes and black wings.

Castiel pauses in front of Becky, studies her. His ebony plumage catches the light, causing an intricate azure pattern to materialize on the ebullient feathers.

Azure. Not pink, not even red.

He isn't Gabriel's son. Of course, he isn't. Gabriel's been alone for centuries; all of his children have long since mated. This is a son of Michael. What's he doing here, working for Gabriel?

Still. An unmated angel close to Gabriel. There's a possibility I haven't considered. It would be so much easier to gain access to Dean if I, too, was the mate of an angel. Assuming I could attract him. 

And. I've seen him before, I'm sure of it.

A modulated voice interrupts my thoughts. "Angels can see into people's minds. It's why he stares at them like that." Chuck. Chuck must think I'm wondering about Castiel's behavior.

I wasn't, but "He's telepathic?"

A nod. "They all are."

Sure enough, when the angel pauses in front of Chuck, he meets his eyes for a long, fraught moment. "Ah," he says, "You will be my personal manservant."

Chuck inclines his head. "Thank you, sir." I catch a secretive smirk on his face before he retreats from the room. 

Before I have time to wonder what that expression could mean and whether I imagined it, Castiel stops before me, looks up, captures my gaze.

I fall into blue, endless blue. Swirling around me, through me. Probing. Drowning me.

I blink, stumble.

Strong arms steady me. Familiar arms. Of course. This is the angel who restrained me in Nebraska, stopped me from saving my brother.

I blink some more.

Castiel steps back, eyes wide, curious. He blinks a few times as well. "Sam Winchester," he eventually comments.

There goes my cover. "I . . . ." I struggle to think up an explanation, a reason why he allow me to stay.

He tilts his head to one side, narrows his eyes. At once, he darts forward, stretches on tiptoe to bury his nose in my neck.

He hops back with a gasp, eyes sparkling bluer, almost silvery, pupils blown. His feathers quiver frantically. He smooths his coat, takes a breath, composes himself. His voice is cool, collected when he speaks. "Yes. You will work with me."


	3. Assignment

Beep. Beep. Beep.

I yawn, reach out my hand to grab my phone, turn off the alarm. I stretch. This bed might be narrow but it's actually long enough for my six-five frame, while the mattress and coverings are comfortable in a way that only wealth can produce. I fully expected to have trouble sleeping--like I have since Dean was taken--and to be up long before my phone informs me I must be, but, well, motels don't have beds like this. And to think I might be here for weeks, even months . . . . However long it takes. After all, I no longer have anywhere else to go, since I quit my job at the Bureau to pursue this likely hopeless venture. Besides, should I succeed, Dean and I will need to change our identities and run, not resume our careers. At least this precarious job comes will a cozy mattress. Soooo cozy . . . .

I burrow deeper under the comforter. It would be so easy to fall back asleep for half an hour.

No. If I don't get up now, I won't have time to go for run. And I always feel jittery on days I don't exercise. Plus, I want to get a look at the grounds. Find out if they are as secure as they are beautiful.

So, up I get.

*

Neatly-folded clothes await me when I return. Piled on a bed freshly-made by--presumably--whoever visited my room to drop them off. Um. Last time I checked, I was here to serve, not be served.

I shake off that thought, examine my new attire. Basic black, with Gabriel's name inscribed in Enochian in pink and red letters on the back and in the right corner of the front. 

I glance again at my bed, realizing for the first time that the blankets aren't red or pink, but blue, as are many of this room's furnishings. Michael's color, not Gabriel's. A reflection of my status as Castiel's personal subordinate? 

*

A small figure hovers impatiently, bouncing from one foot to the other, just outside my door. Chuck. "Oh, good, you're dressed. I wasn't sure you would be. You were gone when I brought your clothes. And made your bed. Since it wasn't. You should always keep your bed made." An uncomfortable chuckle. "Anyway," he claps his hands, "uniform fit okay?" He runs an appraising eye down my body. "It's amazing how they always know the right size."

I close the mouth that had fallen open while this listening to this almost stream of consciousness blabber. "Yes. Amazing. Do we . . . did you need something else?"

His eyes pop wide. "Oh! Well, since we're both working with Lord Castiel--although I don't see why he needs more than one personal manservant" he stretches to his full, insignificant height "I thought we should head to his rooms together. He should be up by now." He spins clumsily on his heel, stalks away.

I raise an eyebrow as I follow.

*

We don't have to go far. Just straight down a discreet staircase, through a plain, nearly hidden door. And into sumptuous apartments decorated in shades of gorgeous, vivid blue. Even the wallpaper shines a bright, cerulean, strangely familiar hue. Where could I have seen that color before?

"Hello, Sam, Chuck." Huge blue eyes study me from far too close in front of me.

I blink, step back. At least I've answered the question about the familiarity of the shade of azure gracing the walls. They are lovely eyes. Now that they're not two inches away from my face. Although there might be situations where that proximity might be appealing--What am I thinking?

I blink again.

Chuck starts jabbering. "So, I'm not sure why there are two of us, but I thought I would start by making your bed, then helping you with your clothes and your wings."

He seems like he's planning to continue chattering until he describes his itinerary for the entire day, but Castiel holds up a hand. "Very good, thank you, Chuck."

Chuck inclines his head, scrambles off.

I turn to look questioningly at Castiel at the same time he turns to calmly regard me. "You are my assistant," he informs me. "Chuck is my manservant. There is no duplication of duties."

"Oh." I have a degree from Stanford. Actually, I almost have two degrees, since I was on the verge of completing my pre-law Bachelors when Jess was killed and I changed my major so that I could become an agent instead of a lawyer. Why is my vocabulary so limited every time I'm in front of this angel?

"Read to me." The seraph gestures at a wall of book-covered shelves while heading for a chair. "Pick any one."

I walk over to the walls, gape at the bounty before me. So many titles. Leather-bound classics, contemporary paperbacks, folios. Novels, poetry, plays, essays. These must be the angel's favorite works, to have a place here, in his sitting room, instead of in the downstairs library that must somewhere exist in this giant mansion. It's obvious that they've been read (and repaired) many, many times.

It's precisely the sort of collection--featuring many of the same works--that I long to acquire but have never lived a sufficiently sedentary lifestyle for it to be possible. I stop myself from sighing over the beautiful cornucopia of volumes, select one.

Castiel waves me to the seat across from his. I perch on the elegant but deceptively comfy navy armchair, start to read. "Call me Ishmael . . . ."

I catch a slight smirk on that handsome face as he leans back, eyes slitted, hands clasped, to listen. I wonder if Moby Dick holds some particular meaning for him. Maybe he knew Melville.

Not long after Ishmael becomes acquainted with Queequeg, Chuck slips back into the room, helps Castiel into a midnight blue suit.

I don't stutter too much as I (try not to) watch blue wool slide over muscular thighs up to the gentle curve of his . . . . I lose all train of thought, forget how to read. Two sets of eyes glance curiously in my direction. I quickly start again, uncaring that I've chosen a paragraph further down the page than the one I was perusing previously.

Chuck knots a cobalt blue tie around Castiel's smooth throat while the angel stands imperturbable as a mannequin, his otherworldly stillness as much a reminder that he's no human as the wings cascading from his shoulders.

Chuck steps back, gives the angel a once-over, nods his head. "I think that will do for today. Would you like your feathers groomed?" The nervous little man I followed in here seems to have been replaced by an efficient professional.

"Just enough to look presentable." He settles onto a deliberately-backwards chair, rests his crossed arms, spreads his wings slightly. Chuck picks up a strange contraption that looks like a brush with the teeth of a comb instead of bristles and begins to carefully run it through those midnight feathers. The plumage flutters, fluffs in response; internal muscles ripple; Castiel's eyes drift shut.

I wish I had an excuse to cross to the other side of this sitting area, to walk behind Castiel, view his feathers all spread out, examine the cobalt patterning the ebony plumage. I wish I could switch places with Chuck, be the one to usher that blissful expression onto the angel's face. I wish I could touch those soft feathers, thread them through my fingers. I wish I could press the thumb of one hand against those full lips, use the other to trace the faint lines around his closed eyes.

I rear back, shocked at my thoughts, the reaction of my body. My reading has for some time (how long?) devolved into incoherent babbling. I must find my spot. Where was I? I push my left hand through my hair as I rapidly scan the page before me. Maybe I'll just start at the top. Yes. That sounds safe.

"Castiel!" The ornate main door bangs open, revealing a nephilim who looks to be in this late teens or early twenties. Slight stature, light brown hair falling over one eye, guileless face. Tiny black wings edged with yellow. A grandson of Lucifer, then. Yet another denizen of Gabriel's house who descended from another archangel.

Castiel blinks, straightens. "Sam," he addresses me, "This is Jack, my ward."

I stand up, hold out my hand, open my mouth to greet my new acquaintance.

Before I can say a word, though, Jack grabs my hand and starts talking. "You're Sam? The Sam? I've heard so much about you! When w--"

A hand drops heavily on his shoulder, interrupting his flow of thoughts, silencing whatever he wanted to ask me. How did Castiel travel over here so quickly, so silently? So invisibly? "I may have mentioned I have a new assistant at dinner last night," he says. But his face softens when he next turns to his ward. "What did you need, Jack?"

The kid's eyes jump between us. "I just wanted to know when I could meet Sam. And I have! So." He stops.

Castiel wraps an arm around him, smiles with a warmth I hadn't expected from so cool, so immovable an individual. "I have been raising Jack since he was a baby," he informs me. "His parents are no longer with us."

Jack looks down, sadness flitting across his young features. "My mother broke the law. She . . . she had to be . . . ." He can't bring himself to finish the sentence, to tell me his mother was--I'm guessing--executed.

What could a pregnant seraph (or a new mother) have done to warrant capital punishment? Wait. The name "Jack" might be a clue. But, no. This can't be that baby? Can he? Two decades ago, President Rooney caused a scandal by resigning abruptly because he'd fallen in love with an angel. And the angels had (have) a covenant with us going back millennia never to interfere with human political affairs. It wasn't enough to save her, though. All she got was a nine-month reprieve until the birth of her son. Then she was taken out. Which meant the former president died, too. There was an outcry all around the world, people begging the angels to reconsider their policy, insisting that we don't want innocent seraphs to die because of who they dare to love. Anyway. The child's name was Jack.

Castiel pats Jack's back before walking over to a floor-to-ceiling window, beckoning for me to follow. "Jack's mother. Kelly. She was Lucifer's favorite child." He stares out the window, clearly seeing the face of his departed cousin instead of the landscaped fields, trees, ponds, streams. "He had plans for her. Plans that did not involve mating--at least, not yet--and political scandal. He was so angry." A sigh. "We asked him to see reason--to make an exception since her mate resigned. But he didn't. We had trouble even convincing him to let Jack be born. He wanted to execute her immediately."

I fail to suppress my horrified gasp.

He inclines his head, acknowledging my reaction. "She was" his eyes drop "a good friend. When she asked me to take Jack, I couldn't refuse. Even though I knew nothing about child-rearing."

I glance behind me, watch Jack enthusiastically question Chuck about his duties, offer to help. "You seem to have done a good job."

Luminescent eyes capture mine. "Thank you."

My secondary plan for getting to Dean was to attract the man before me, become his mate, rise to the level of an equal (or almost an equal), so no one will pay close attention as I whisk my brother away.

But, so far, the only person in danger of becoming seduced is me.


	4. Bees

Castiel weaves through rows of flowering shrubs circling ornate topiary, occasionally throwing back a comment about a suggested improvement or alteration for me to dutifully note in the tablet he thrust into my hands before leading me into the garden. A light breeze rustles the heavy material of his tan trench coat, flirts with his dark wing feathers, plays with his already untameable (I've watched Chuck's attempts with a comb, gel, leave-in conditioner, hairspray) mop.

Jack runs before us, dividing his time between admiring the foliage (or any passing birds, butterflies, squirrels) and treating us to a detailed commentary on the biological nature of every living organism that happens to catch his eye. This makes him seem younger, or at least more innocent, than his appearance suggests. Could I be wrong about his age. A quick mental calculation assures me I am not. The boy before me is nineteen years old.

Bubbling chatter interrupts my thoughts. I look up to find a tourist group winding around the bushes, led by that girl Chuck likes. Becky. She grins at me, inclines her head to my angelic companion. Castiel nods back. She somehow manages to become even perkier as she explains to her group--which looks to be a high school class on a field trip--that these plants originate in countries all over the world, that Gabriel chose them all personally. "My favorite," she enthuses, "Is this lily from, I think, Japan." She points to a stunning flower bobbing at the edge of the flagstone path.

Jack stops cavorting to listen. His eye strays from Becky's sparkling eyes to one of the knots of teenage girls behind her. His mouth drops slightly open as he surveys them in obvious appreciation. But. No heat, no real lust.

A gravely voice tickles my ear, rumbles to my left. "Angels mature more slowly than humans," Castiel informs me. "Jack might be physically an adult, but he will not be of mating age for another ten or fifteen years."

I feel a bit faint; must be the heat. "I didn't know that," I manage to reply.

He steps back. "The extra years give us more time to grow, to learn ourselves. We don't date or divorce, so we have to be very sure of ourselves when we mate." His eyes flare with a deeper intensity for a moment.

I wish I knew him well enough to interpret the meaning behind that expression.

A tiny yellow ball of fluff buzzes over to Castiel, flits around him. He chuckles, holds out his hand for the minuscule creature to land on. It's a bee, I realize, moving closer. I've never seen one so fuzzy, so docile. So, well, cute.

More bees zigzag around us, visit the flowers. The angel regards them with a smile of fond fascination. He gives me a few bee-related directives to type into the tablet, but mostly he wants a reminder to commend the beekeepers for the health and vigor of their charges.

The angel starts strolling again, heedless of the potential stings of the insects orbiting him. They zoom off, return to their hives or their tasks. "We cultivate bees," Castiel informs me. "We can" a pause "relate to them. Their complete devotion to their queen, their willingness to do anything for her: that's how we view our mates."

I take a shuddering lungful of air. When did I stop breathing? "So you choose just one person to be with in your entire life and that person becomes your whole world?"

Eyes the same shade as the horizon beyond the hedges laser into me. "Yes." 

"Wow," I whisper, bite the inside of my mouth. Still. No amount of pampering can atone for rape and abduction.

A shadow traverses the angel's face. His words stumble over each other when he speaks. "The bees also help with the upkeep of this estate. We sell different varieties of honey and wax. Candles." He slowly stills as he collects himself. "And we run an online bakery. Baklava. Chocolate-covered honeycomb. Cupcakes. Ice cream. Breads. All kinds of sweets." A rueful smile. "Gabriel has a major sweet tooth."

So does someone else I know. But having one thing in common doesn't make Dean and Gabriel into a perfect match. Especially considering all of the consent issues involved in their mating.

*

I stare up at the darkened ceiling of my attic room. What is it about Castiel that twists my brain so I can think of nothing but him? I didn't even have any attraction to men before I met him, but now my dreams and waking thoughts are haunted by luminescent eyes, tousled black hair, pale pink lips, billowing wings, muscular thighs. I came here for a specific purpose and it wasn't to sigh after my boss!

I punch my unresisting pillow.

What time is it, anyway? I grab my phone, turn it on. 3:22. Really? I growl softly as I rub my hands down my face. As irksome as it is to be awake at this hour, the knowledge of just how groggy, how irritable I'll feel tomorrow makes my frustration even worse. Plus, Cas--where did that come from?--Castiel will have to deal with me being all snippy and red-eyed, when the poor guy is swamped with perfecting this property before Gabriel arrives. And.

And, there I am thinking about Castiel again.

I sigh, give up on sleep, heave myself out of bed.

Maybe I can find something to read in the (massive) downstairs library.

*

Gabriel has quite the extensive collection of baking cookbooks and erotic novels. He does have plenty of literary fiction, classics, ancient tomes (even scrolls) of historical value. But. Hmm. The world created by Laurell K. Hamilton sounds strangely appealing at the moment.

I pick a random novel, seek out a comfy chair close to a small, unobtrusive lamp, start reading. I ignore my imagination's helpful decision to give all of the sexy male vampires and werewolves Castiel's visage. I attempt to ignore my imagination's decision to switch things around during sex scenes, give Anita the angel's face and form and turn the man pounding her against the closest available surface into . . . into . . . me.

Heat swirls within me, sweat dampens my hair, my lungs labor, my boxers tighten.

Seriously?

This. Is. Ridiculous! 

"Look, Cassie, you're going to wear yourself out, turn that pretty face completely haggard." A voice intrudes on my thoughts. A British accent, underscored with more than a hint of French. Huh.

Dean once had a short, intense relationship with a girl named Cassie, but it seems highly unlikely she would be in Kansas, much less Gabriel's private library at three, no four, AM.

A male voice--a very familiar male voice--replies: "I know. It's just. I feel like I'm failing, like it's all slipping away from me."

Two figures wander into my line of sight. My normally unflappable (does that count as pun? When referring to an angel?) supervisor wears rumpled sweat pants paired with a grey-blue Henley; his ruffled feathers stick up in some spots, clump together in others; dark circles rim his eyes. His companion, though, looks as fresh as the blossoms Cas--Castiel--and I wended our way through earlier today. Or yesterday. Whatever. Impeccably groomed pink and white mottled wings sweep the floor, expensive silks adorn a lithe body, eyeliner enhances a pair of mischievous eyes.

Which of Gabriel's sons could this be? His accent indicates a European residence, but that doesn't narrow the list much, since there are seraphs living in every country of the world. He just seems so close--so enviably close (where did that thought come from)--to Castiel. Even calls him by a nickname. Like my subconscious has started to do. With Cas instead of Cassie. Because there's nothing feminine about that hard body, those strong fingers, that handsome face, those beautiful eyes . . . .

Which are staring right at me.

I jump to my feet, stutter out a jumbled explanation about insomnia and comfortable chairs and entertaining novels.

Cas--yes, Cas!--raises an eyebrow. His friend notices the title of my paperback, smirks. His gaze drifts from my messy hair down to my bare feet. "Tell me, Cassie, where did you find this tall drink?"

I flush, shuffle my feet. A mated man should not be looking at me so appreciatively.

Castiel growls, moves between us. "Sam, this Balthazar. Balth, this is Sam."

Balthazar glides past the arm outstretched to stop him. "So, this is the lovely assistant." He runs a finger down my arm. "I would poach him from you if I didn't have a jealous mate."

Cas shoves him away. "Yes, well, you wouldn't want Donna to come after you with a frying pan. Again."

Donna? His eternal partner is female?--That'll teach me to make assumptions based on stereotypes. Then again, I've read that angel sexuality is different, based on scent instead of gender. 

Balthazar smiles dreamily. "Maybe she'll break out the cuffs again." He winks at me. "My girl was a sheriff before I found her. She still works in law enforcement every time we settle somewhere for longer than a month." A happy sigh. "I always thought a cowboy would sweep me off my feet, but my Donna showed me a woman can be just as dominant." His eyes darken. "Wonder if she's awake?" He sidles away. "Ta ta, Cassie. And worry not: Your fears are entirely unfounded." He gifts me another wink, prances out of sight.

Cas and I stare at each other silently for an interminable moment. One of his wings curves around, tickles my shoulder. I feel the gentle dance of the feathers straight through the thin, worn material of my tee shirt. My breath hitches; I shiver.

Castiel cocks his head, narrows his eyes. He mutters something I can't catch. Aloud, he says, "We should both get back to bed. Sam, I'll give you a couple of hours to sleep in, but I expect to see you in my rooms at ten." He spins on his heel, marches out.

I follow slowly, wondering if Balthazar is the only angel to find me attractive. Wondering what I smell like to sensitive angelic noses.

Wondering.


	5. Impasse

The unpaved path stretches barely wider than one of my sneakered feet. Emerald grass and lush clover peep over the edges, seek to reclaim the iron-rich dirt for the sprawling, imperialistic lawn. This far from the mansion, dandelions and other flowering weeds have permission to take up residence in the endless green, so they dot the fields with vivid color. All of the blades and leaves and petals sparkle blindingly as the early morning sunlight captures the dew thinly blanketing them.

I'm tempted to slow my run to an ambling walk, appreciate the scenery, revel in the cool breeze.

Procrastinate from heading to Castiel's rooms, starting my work day.

Delay seeing Cas.

Delay drowning in those cerulean eyes, floundering against the shoals of that gritty voice, spinning in the whirlpool of desire inspired by his compact body.

With each day I spend in the angel's proximity, the torture grows a little more unbearable. 

I've previously only been attracted to women--to soft curves and waist-length hair and sweet voices--but now all I want is to press against that hard chest as I sink into his body, to bury my hands in the messy waves of his short hair, to lift muscular thighs until they're wrapped around my hips.

I gasp, lean my weight against a helpful nearby tree, my fingers digging into the unyielding bark.

Guess I react viscerally to even the thought of my-the angel.

This infatuation is getting out of hand.

I should go. Grab my belongings and sneak out the gate before Cas--before anyone realizes I'm gone. I really should. But. I clutch my chest, pushing against the flash of psychological pain embedded there. The thought of being away from the beautiful seraph--never again feeling the breeze caused by the flutter of his midnight wings, never again hearing his concise description of angelic customs, never again tasting the first samples of the chefs' creations directly from Castiel's cool fingers--is unbearable. Still.

I'm not exactly here for honest, trustworthy, above-board reasons. And. The angels are not the brainwashing, kidnapping, home-wrecking monsters I thought they were. At least. Not unless they've brainwashed me. Or drugged me. I've certainly been hazy, unfocused, overwhelmed since coming here.

But. I don't believe it. Castiel is too straightforward for such methods. Too honorable. Too kind.

Besides. None of that matters because I'm not here for myself. I'm here for my brother. I promised Dean I would rescue him. (Assuming he actually needs rescuing?) So. I have to stay.

I try to convince myself that my lighthearted mood is due to the weather.

*

When I enter Castiel's suite, I find his sitting room full of people. Angels. Not people. Well. I guess they are people.

Anyway, their wings take up an inordinate amount of space.

A flurry of black feathers, long dark hair, grey attire coalesces into the shape of a comely blue-eyed woman. Who promptly seizes both of my hands. "You must be Sam!"

I blink. "Yes?" I clear my throat. "I mean, yes, that's me. Hi." Could I be more awkward?

She pats my cheek, titters. "You are too cute. If you get bored of Castiel, give me a call." A wink.

"I . . . ." Is she mistaken as to the nature of my employment? I'm quite certain there are adult films where personal assistant refers to a very different position. But. She's cocking her head, squinting her eyes (much like Cas does when he's thoughtful or perplexed) and clearly waiting for me to finish my sentence. "I'm very happy with my currant job. Thank you."

A smirk that grows into a smile that becomes a laugh. "You are exactly as Balthazar described."

Before I can formulate a comprehensible reply, a figure forces his way between us. Castiel. Standing so close I can feel the warmth of his body. "Sam," he says breathlessly, "I see you've met Hannah. My twin." He steps back, stands beside his sister.

I clench my fists to refrain from pulling him close, tucking him against me. Smelling his hair. Tilting his face up for . . . . I swallow. Inappropriate thoughts. I hope he isn't reading them. I know angels have some telepathic abilities. I'm not sure how extensive they are. And. I haven't taken a breath in two minutes. I inhale through my nose, straighten my posture, force a smile. "It's good to meet you. I haven't actually met any of Castiel's siblings before. Come to think of it." A self-conscious, but entirely real, laugh.

Hannah smiles at me. "I won't be the only one. We all want to meet Gabriel's new mate."

I can feel the blood drain from my face. Does she know she's talking about my brother? I study her. Huge blue eyes, delicate features, blue-black wings, luscious curves, (she's the female version of Castiel--shouldn't I find her attractive, more attractive than I find him?), guileless face. She doesn't know.

A hand slides into mine, a voice whispers in my ear. "I haven't told anyone of your relationship to Dean."

I turn. Castiel presses so intimately close to me. "But," I suppress a shiver, "Can't they read it from me like you did?" Seriously, how does this mind-reading power work?

His eyes drop from mine, dart around the room. I can't resist following their path with my own eyes. Jack chatters to Balthazar and a voluptuous blonde woman, his tiny wings quivering excitedly. Hannah runs one slender hand along the top of the grand piano situated in one corner. A solemn-faced blue-winged seraph relaxes on a love seat near the bookcases, his mate perched beside him. With a jolt of familiarity, I realize I know who they are--Gadreel and Kevin. Strange to see them in person. I don't recognize any of the other individuals or couples in the room. Except. Chuck bounces around with a tray of pastries (likely sweetened with honey), offering refreshments to everyone he passes. The little man glows with joy. He really loves his job. Seems to think serving angels is the greatest honor ever. It's bizarre. I wonder sometimes if there's a specific reason why-

Castiel's hand grips mine a little more insistently. He starts pulling me across the room. "I think we might want a little more privacy for this conversation," he informs me.

Do we? Does it matter if people--angels--know I'm the brother of Gabriel's celebrated new mate? And everyone in here already knows the extent of angelic telepathic abilities. Still, it's getting a bit noisy in here. And I suspect I would go anywhere Cas led, especially when his hand clasps mine so tightly, so firmly.

The dimly-lit room he leads me to contains only a king-sized bed, a desk, a couple of easy chairs, and three (filled) bookcases. His bedroom. This is where Cas sleeps. And. Where other things could happen. Did the oxygen level just drop? And since when are my pants so tight?

Cas closes the door behind us, walks a few feet into the room before turning around. He regards me seriously, hands on his narrow, masculine hips. I notice he's dressed a touch more casually today: no coat, no jacket, tie askew, white sleeves rolled up. The word that comes to mind is sexy. 

And now I'm wondering if the air conditioning isn't working in this room. Because it. Is. Hot.

And, speaking of hot . . . .

"We can only read thoughts and feelings that are projected at us and only when we're looking straight into someone's eyes and seeking information," he informs me. One hand slides from his waist to tap against his thigh.

I consider this. "So, when you met us all to give assignments, that was also our final interview." It also explains how he knew my real identity--I would certainly have been thinking about my brother that morning.

"Yes." The syllable slinks out of his mouth as a low, sensual growl. It's distractingly sexy. I would like to hear him say that word in other scenarios, many involving the giant bed behind him. But, then he adds, "Sometimes candidates have false identities that get through all our background checks. I need to know if someone is planning to steal from us. Or kill one of us." His lasering eyes bore into me. "Or make off with one of my relatives."

I freeze. In more than one sense of the word. When did it get so cold in here?

Castiel sidles closer, his wings spread to cage me. He somehow seems to tower over me despite the five or six inches that I have on him.

"Look," I babble, "He's my brother, I-I-I have to make sure he's okay. He-He asked me to-to rescue if. You know, if-if he needs to be. And." And why does the stutter I worked so hard to lose always return when I'm nervous?

Castiel raises an eyebrow. "And how do you explain your intention to seduce me to get close enough to Gabriel in order to abscond with his mate? Thus leaving us both mateless."

My mouth drops open. He saw that, too? He's making it sound so much worse than it is, but I'm not sure how to point that out without admitting to the substance of the accusation.

"You should know," the angel goes on, "that it is hardly flattering to be wanted for such nefarious reasons. I am perfectly capable of finding a mate who is interested in me for me." I don't doubt that, but his black wings present clear proof that he has yet to find a man (or woman) who suits him. "So there is no need for you to read my favorite books and run shirtless past my window every morning and-and show off those dimples when you smile." He stretches his wings higher. "I won't be tempted."

I gape. None of that was done with the intention of appealing to Cas. In fact, the gorgeous angel has me so bamboozled that I can barely concentrate on my duties, much less add to them with actual seduction plans. More importantly, though, "If you could see all that, why did you still hire or let me stay hired, whatever, and why did you want me to work with you?" It really doesn't make sense.

He steps back, folds his wings. "I was curious to see what you would do." His face is slightly too blank. Is there more he's not telling me?

I frown. "Okay. Well. Do you want me to go? Or work with someone else?"

Castiel's wings flare, his eyes flash. "No!" He shakes his head, speaks rapidly. "No, you're-you're an excellent assistant. Really hard worker. And I'm sure-I'm sure we can work something out. About . . . ."

Trumpets. Cymbals. Cheers.

What the . . . ?

I rush to the nearest window, dimly aware that Castiel matches my pace.

Crowds of angels and humans, some playing instruments, some screaming in applause. Pink and red streamers floating alongside similarly colored balloons. A circle of pink-winged seraphs and nephilim. A flamboyantly-dressed, golden-winged archangel raising his arms, shouting something I can't hear through the thick glass of the window. A more sedately-dressed man beside him, the sunlight glinting the blond streaks in his hair, the bright teeth revealed by his wide grin.

Gabriel is back. With Dean.

My brother is here.


	6. Visitors

I clutch the windowsill, needing it to take the weight my legs no longer seem able to manage. Dean's here. Here. Where I am. So close that if he lifted his eyes up, away from his captor-lover-mate, he would see me. He doesn't. But. He's here! In the flesh. I've been anticipating, imagining his arrival for months. Picturing every possible scenario. And now, there he is, holding hands with Gabriel, preparing to walk inside this house.

It's surreal.

I'm not ready. I've always approached any task before me with deliberation, researching every facet, considering every eventuality, creating plans and sub-plans and sub-sub-plans. (My brother is the opposite: quick on his feet, able to invent brilliant strategies in the spur of the moment, hotheaded. It's the perfect complement to my studious nature. Together we make a formidable force. Made. I blink away that distressing thought.)

This time, though . . . . I haven't formulated any concrete, detailed outlines. I know all of the best running paths but not the weak points in the security fence. I know Castiel's habits, interests, schedule but little to nothing about Gabriel's. I would have no difficulty leading someone to Castiel's favorite, most frequented spots in the house--the library, the greenhouse, the observatory--but I have no idea which are the most secluded, least guarded exits. As for my other (apparently easily discovered) idea, I've been so focused on Castiel's gorgeous eyes, gravely voice, mesmerizing wings, his love of flowers and bees, his passion for literature, his concern for others . . . . What was my original train of thought? Oh, yes. I've been so focused on the incredible individual that is Castiel, that I've neglected to learn anything about his taste in potential mates, what variety of human attracts him, even whether he prefers men or women. I'm a failure. I've just been too-

"Distracted."

The word comes from beside me, not my head, even though it's what I'd been thinking.

"I've allowed myself to get distracted." Castiel mutters to himself, one hand gripping--almost tearing--the forest green velvet curtain tassel as he stares out the window. "I should have been more prepared for Gabriel's arrival." He turns to me, squaring his shoulders. "I must go greet my uncle. Goodbye, Sam." A stretch of his wings and he's gone.

A moment later, he appears on the lawn outside, bows to the archangel, holds out a hand for my brother.

"Goodbye," I whisper.

*

I must get to my brother. Sure, I have no way of sneaking him out of here. But I just want to see him. Be in the same room with my brother, partner, parent, best friend. Maybe. Maybe a plan will come to me once I've stood in front of him, spoken to him. I know angels are protective of their mates, but surely, surely I'll be allowed that much.

This decided, I race across the silent bedroom, slam open the door. Stop.

The formerly bustling parlor stands empty. Vacated. The angels must have grabbed their mates and zapped out of here. To go meet my brother.

"Yes, they've all gone." A calm tenor speaks behind me. Chuck. The enigmatic, imperturbable man tidies the room efficiently, unhurriedly. "You should go rest while you can. The next few days will be busy."

I'm shaking my head before words even start to form in my harried brain.

"Aw." Chuck raises his eyebrows. "You wish to catch a glimpse of Gabriel's new mate." 

It isn't a question, but I nod anyway. "Yes."

Chuck tosses out some snack detritus, begins to unwind the cord of his favorite vacuum. "You should take the stairwell behind the kitchens. Fewer crowds."

"Good idea." A quick nod and I'm out the door.

*

One minute the halls are empty (aside from the occasional shell-shocked servant); the next they're full of chattering, swaggering, simpering angels. Colorful wings brush against the walls, the artwork, the furniture, the people, each other. And why did I never realize how annoyingly much space they take up?

Still, I push through them, choke on feathers, ignore outraged yells. If they're in here, Gabriel must have entered the house, which means Dean (!) is inside. But, they can't possibly have already made their way to Gabriel's princely chambers, not when all of these angels (and when did they all get here?) seem to want to greet them. I don't think so, anyway. If I hurry, I can catch them, say hi to my brother.

I run faster, winding swiftly around and between wings. I bump into a seraph, who says something to his companion about changing for the feast before screaming at me that he will see about getting me fired.

As if I still have a job after my confrontation with Castiel. Well, he said I do. But it sounds like he really shouldn't have hired me in the first place. And. I don't know. The way he said goodbye sounded so final.

I spin onto the stairwell behind the kitchens. Unsurprisingly, Chuck was correct: there's no one on it. That guy seems to have bottomless knowledge about the inner workings of this estate and the angels on it.

If no one's here, no can stop me from taking the quickest method: sliding down the banisters! I hop on. One floor. Two. Thr-Uh, oh. Someone's there. On the ledge between flights, standing in front of the huge picture window, lit up by the brilliant mid-morning light.

Six giant black wings, gilded by the sunbeams and pale gold trim. Spiky blond hair haloing a coldly handsome face. Icy blue eyes (so different from Castiel's soft azure orbs). Tall, muscular frame, simply clad in jeans and a white tee shirt.

This. This is Gabriel's second oldest brother. Lucifer. Most powerful, most infamous of the archangels.

I stumble, nearly fall, as I hurry off the banister.

Powerful arms appear out of nowhere, steady me. He must have flown to get to me so quickly. I blink, force my dropped jaw to close. The archangel runs his hands slowly from my shoulders to my wrists and back up. He leans forward to press his nose to my throat, smell me.

"Well," he intones, not bothering to let go of me. "I am glad I agreed to come to my baby brother's shindig. I never would have guessed there was such a treasure waiting for me."

I attempt to brush off his hands, sidle away. He merely grips me tighter. "Look," I say, "I really need to get downstairs. There's something I have to do."

Narrowed eyes. "Hmm." Ebony wings rise, spread, begin to curl around me. Fingers caress my jaw. "No need to be coy. You want to meet the boss' new mate." His frozen gaze bores into me, thaws a bit in shock. "Oho. Gabriel's Dean is your brother. Well." A smile. "You will have all the access to him you want when you're my consort."

No. Lucifer hasn't even been single for very long. Two years ago, his mate, a Scot named Fergus MacLeod, announced to the world that the three contentious centuries he'd spent with the archangel were so miserable he was certain Hell would be an improvement. Then he stabbed himself on live television. I have no interest in learning personally how accurate the man's description of life with Lucifer might be. Not even if it's only long enough to grab my brother and vanish.

I struggle to pull away. "Look, I'm . . . flattered, but . . . not looking for a relationship right now."

He's immovable. I might as well be tussling with one of the many stone sculptures of his likeness stashed in art museums around the world. Hot breath singes my ear as stretches up to whisper "I will find a way to make you say yes to me."

"No." Thankfully, my tone is even, strong, decisive, instead of the squeak I feared would come out.

A smirk. "Yes."

"You heard him: no!" Castiel materializes beside me, feathers crackling with anger.

Lucifer raises an eyebrow. "Aw, Cassandra. Am I messing with your toys?" He leans forward until his face is barely an inch from Castiel's. "Let me give you a hint: if you want to claim a human, you have to actually claim him. Otherwise, someone might notice how delectable he is and take him from you." He winks at me before coolly sauntering off.

After a few moments spent recovering my equilibrium, I turn to the angel hovering protectively, threateningly beside me. "How did you know I was here?"

"I sensed your distress." He heaves a breath, folds his still-fluffed wings.

I gape. "I didn't know you could do that."

Shadowed blue eyes meet mine for a brief second, dart away. "Neither did I."

He's gone before I can demand further clarification.


	7. Arches

Chuck bustles into my room, arriving before the sun, waking me up (long) before my alarm. He slams open my closet, starts maniacally paging through my clothes. "Do you have anything other than your uniforms and those shorts" a derisive snort "you run in?"

I sit up, blink, run a hand through my hair. "Well, there's the clothes I wore the first day, but I don't really need anything else." I yawn.

He locates the ensemble in question--slacks and a button-down--shakes the items out while examining them dubiously before thrusting them unceremoniously back in the closet. He glares at my wardrobe for a moment, looking a bit like a fearsome field mouse. "Well, maybe there's something giant-sized in the duds the designers keep sending us."

He skitters out of my room, sparing me one last exasperated glance.

I fall back on my pillows in confusion.

*

Further sleep eludes me. After ten minutes cataloging the bumps on my ceiling, I give up on rest and fumble into my recently disparaged workout clothes.

A run in the predawn chill only gives me space and time to let my thoughts fester without bringing clarity. Why does Chuck suddenly care about my wardrobe? Why are all the angels peculiarly interested in me? Does Castiel see me just as an employee? Will I ever manage to see my brother? What has been going with Chuck?

A blisteringly hot shower brings cleanliness but no relaxation, no calmness. no tranquility. Certainly no clarification.

Plus, I leave the bathroom to find Chuck has once again invaded my living space. Neat piles of black, blue, white, and grey garments dot my freshly-made (by him?) bed. "Good, you're out," he mutters, and immediately picks up shirt after shirt to hold up against my (bare, dripping) chest, frowning in concentration.

"Um, do we have to do this now?" I'm pretty sure my flush has decided to travel far from just my cheeks, seeking exotic destinations in places no coworker should see.

Chuck ignores me, picks up another option, checks the size against the width of my shoulders. He nods to himself. "This one." He bundles me into a slate grey, navy blue, charcoal black ensemble.

I have to admit the design flatters my coloring and form, but "Okay, what's this for?"

"You're accompanying Lord Castiel to the noon banquet." He stretches himself as tall as his diminutive figure can manage.

I drop my comb. (The brand new, perfectly pressed, tailored clothing highlights the tangled mess of my morning hair all too well). "Wait, I'm invited to the banquet?" I've been plotting ways to sneak in for days. At least, at a party, I can get a good look at my brother instead of the brief, unsatisfying glimpses that are all I've managed since he moved into Gabriel's mansion.

Chuck picks up my comb, hands it to me. "You are Castiel's assistant." His calm words indicate that this should have been the obvious conclusion. Maybe it should have been. Angels don't date, so single angels routinely attend events with relatives or friends. Also, I guess, assistants. 

Still, I get to go. I get to go! I get to spend an hour (or more) examining Dean, checking for any changes in appearance or behavior, any sign of distress. I might even get to talk to him!--Assuming he hasn't been brainwashed into forgetting me. After all, it's been months since I last saw him and my phone number hasn't changed and he hasn't called.

And I sound like a preteen girl.

I let out the breath I've been holding. It's just . . . . My experience with Lucifer rebuilt my certainty that forced matings occur. But. I finally have an opportunity to check my brother's condition, learn if he needs rescuing. 

"Thank you for telling me," I inform a still hovering Chuck. "And thanks for the clothes." My lips quirk. "Glad I'll have something to change into."

"You should just leave them on," he replies hurriedly. "It's time to go, anyway."

*

Castiel's attention flicks to me when I walk into his sitting room. His already large eyes widen, dance down my body and back up. Twice. Thrice. He blinks, swallows. When those eyes meet mine, they're noticeably darker than usual.

He drifts over to me, wings spread, flapping just enough that he's almost floating, toes of his black dress shoes dragging against the Persian rugs. "That's not your uniform," he comments, confused voice more gravely than usual.

"No, I-Chuck said I'm going to the banquet." I wave a vague hand in the direction of the bedroom door the man in question just disappeared behind, presumably to make the bed and pick out a party outfit for Cas.

Cas actually bounces, feathers quivering. "Yes. I realized this morning I forgot to ask you. I figured you knew it's expected. Since I don't have a mate. But you didn't know, did you?"

Is my angel boss rambling? While blushing? "It's okay. I know now."

"This must be Sam," a new voice breaks in.

Why does everyone know who I am? I close my eyes in mild frustration as I turn. Then watch all of my thoughts flutter away as I gape at the newcomer.

Black hair, piercing blue eyes, chiseled features. Toned, powerful body. Six massive blue and gold wings.

This is Micheal, oldest of the archangels. And Castiel's father. Which I'm pretty sure he just told me while I was temporarily deaf from shock.

His handshake is a threatening, bone-crushing squeeze. "Where did you go to college?"

"Stanford."

"What do you plan to do with your life?"

Good question. I really haven't thought past locating (and rescuing) (if needed) Dean. Something tells me my FBI career ended the day I took a leave of absence to chase after my brother. "Maybe law? I mean, I could go back to school. I was only a few credits shy of a pre-law degree when I changed my major."

A raised eyebrow. "How often do you go to church?"

What's with these questions? "Every Sunday. Mostly. I try."

Castiel elbows his way between his father and me. "He goes with me. Dad." He glares at his father for a moment, every feather standing on end.

Michael raises his hands, steps back. His voice sounds far pleasanter when he speaks again. "Sam, would you like to meet my mate?"

"Yeah." I clear my throat. "Yes."

The archangel reaches a hand back to draw a small blonde woman forward. I realize where Cas inherited his sweet features and huge eyes, even if his coloring comes straight from his imposing father. She even reminds me a bit of my mother, the way she looked in old, old photos from before her marriage. "Hello, Sam," she says, "I've been looking forward to meeting you."

My smile mirrors hers.

*

Castiel and I are seated nowhere near the main table, but at least my position affords me a clear view of Dean. He laughs with Gabriel, makes others laugh in turn. He enjoys his steak, fries, and dipping sauce while completely ignoring his veggies. Point one for Dean still being Dean. He sips water instead of beer or any other variety of alcohol. Point against. He eats slowly, politely, instead of shuffling food into his mouth. Another point against. His entire face lights up when a slice of cherry pie is placed in front of him. Point for.

His face seems softer, smoother, prettier, which could be either my imagination or a natural result of whatever changes in the physiology of angelic mates to make them as immortal as their partners. But the ice is gone from his eyes. I've seen my brother happy, but never so content. So peaceful. That makes for a very regretful point against.

"Hard not to notice when someone stares at my mate for two hours." Red and gold fill my sight, almost blinding me with their garish vividity.

I was so focused on analyzing my brother's condition that I failed to see Gabriel leave his side, failed to see him circling the tables. But that is undeniably the maroon-suited archangel standing to my right, silently ushering a pair redheaded female mates out of their seats, so he can straddle the one closest to me. 

"Look, " I say, using the soft, placating tone that convinces widows (and widowers) to tell me all they remember, "I'm sorry. It's just-"

"Dean's his brother," Cas interjects. He stands beside me, arms folded defensibly. Muscles I didn't know he had flex distractingly beneath the fine material of his shirt. His very familiar shirt. Chuck dressed us identically. 

"Close your mouth; you look like a fish." Gabriel sounds amused.

My skin warms. I rip my gaze from Castiel's beauty (the grey brings out the glow of his tan just as much as the blue brings out his eyes). "Listen," I request, "He really is my brother. I just want to see him."

A raised eyebrow. "Seems to me you can see him just fine. You've been looking at him for the entire meal. That's why I came over here."

I straighten, meet his eyes. "I want to talk to him."

Gabriel leans forward, looks through me, into my thoughts. Why will I never remember that angels are telepathic? The archangel steeples his fingers. "Cas," he asked, gaze still fixed on me, "were you aware your little assistant wants to kidnap my mate?"

"That's not it!" I argue. "At least, not unless . . . . I just want to be sure he's okay."

"You have to have seen that he's just worried about his brother," Castiel defends me. 

Pursed lips, narrowed eyes, cocked head, flickering feathers. "Fine." Gabriel hops to his feet. "I'll give you an hour. If you want more than that, well, that's up to Dean." He raises his eyebrows, grins. Saunters off.

It takes me a moment to follow, a moment for it to hit that I'm finally going to stand face to face with my brother. After all these months.


	8. Dean

Castiel escorts me outside and across the grounds to one of several gazebos. It's smaller, less ostentatious than the others and more private, with its columns and trellises ribboned by verdant roses festooned with gold and scarlet blossoms. Dean and I will be able to watch any activities in the surrounding fields without being easily observed ourselves.

Cas leads me up the steps to the garlanded doorway, pauses, studies his (recently shined) black dress shoes. "Dean will join you soon."

I expect him to move, turn around, leave but he remains still, shoulders slightly hunched, wings drooping. Not wanting him to go anymore than he seems ready to, I scrounge for something to say, come up with: "How did you know to bring me here?--Gabriel never said where to meet. Is this the usual meeting spot or something?"

Blue eyes pierce me. "Gabriel told me to bring you here."

"He did? When? Like in a text?" I really didn't see them exchange any words in the Hall just now.

Castiel shakes his head, points to his forehead. "Angels can communicate with our minds."

"Oh." That actually makes sense. "Is it like when you read my thoughts?"

"A little." He steps into the gazebo. "But it's more deliberate. Another angel can't see anything I don't want him to."

"Seems a little unfair for us lowly humans." When did he get so close?

"You 'lowly humans' are so bright, so vivid, so beautiful, so mesmerizing that we need a defense mechanism to keep us sane around you." He sidles still closer, his warmth seeping through my already over-heated chest, his feathers tickling my arms. "We need to know what you are thinking so we don't fall for your sparkle, your charm, your capriciousness, your rapid dance through life." Fingers glide across my shoulders. His voice drops to a near whisper. "We need to know when you're sincere, honest, real."

When did I forget how to breathe?

He rises on tiptoes to murmur in my ear: "We only mate once, so we need to know we're making the right choice."

My breath comes out in a noisy, wavering gasp.

It's so easy, so natural to fold him in my arms, bury my hands in his feathers, press my lips to his. Can an experience be both searing and blissful? Cas winds his arms around my neck, adheres his body to mine, kisses back. My eyes drift shut as I squeeze him tighter, wondering if I could lift him, wrap his muscular legs around my waist. 

Cold. Harsh. Stumble.

I collect my scattered thoughts, calm my racing pulse. He's pushed me away, his angelic strength sending me careening across the white-painted wooden floor. I stand, dust myself off while blinking, gaping, seeking a way to articulate my confusion.

The seraph poses several feet away, wings out, hands forward. He looks both contrite and menacing, but his heaving chest and darkened eyes inform me that I did not imagine his enthusiastic response to my embrace.

"Sorry," he stammers. "I can't. Not when . . . not if . . . not until . . . not . . . ." His eyes meet mine, drop to the floor. "Maybe. Maybe after . . . ."

"Howdy, Cas!" a new voice booms heartily. Gabriel. He bounds into the gazebo, somehow managing, as always, to make his small form seem larger than life.

But it's the taller figure behind him that catches my attention. Dean slips through the doorway, looking around, green eyes darting from vine-covered posts to curved benches to flowered balustrades. They pause on me, light up brilliantly. "Sammy!"

An instant later, I'm ensconced in a tight, solacing hug.

Dimly, I hear Gabriel comment, "C'mon Cas, let's go find Rafe before he wanders so far into my garden that the plants swallow him up and he's never seen again," and Castiel respond, "We don't have any carnivorous plants." But I'm too focused on the feel of my brother's strong arms, steady heartbeat, warm vitality to care enough to interpret that exchange. 

A tear slithers down my cheek. I sniff, rub my face. Sniff again. Because something isn't right. The brother I lost smelled of oil, whiskey, leather, tobacco. Also, often cheeseburgers, onions, sugary whipped cream. Only the latter is still present in the man before me.

I frown, step back, examine him.

The hardness is gone from his eyes, leaving them resembling lush grass instead of cold emeralds. His face looks softer, smoother, younger, a bit rounder. His hair seems slightly longer, thicker. He's perhaps a touch slenderer. Except in one area. Maybe a leisurely life has caused him to lose muscle while gaining some belly fat?

A hand sporting an unfamiliar golden ring blocks my view. Dean gentle touches his lower abdomen. Almost like . . . .

"Yes, I'm pregnant." Abrupt, gruff. Accompanied by pinkened cheeks.

"What? How?"

A sly smile. "I'm sure you know where babies come from."

I roll my eyes. "Well, yeah, but I also know where they don't come from. You're a guy."

He blushes again. "Mating changes people. Like, physically. Gabriel says it's because mating is for companionship and procreation and procreation isn't possible unless someone can, you know" he scratches the back of his head "gestate."

Actually, this makes sense. Raphael, the reclusive fourth archangel (wait, isn't he the one Gabriel and Cas are planning to locate?) mated a man named Joshua thousands of years ago and their seraph children were clearly not adopted. Also, I've heard rumors that baby-faced nephilim Samandriel's silver-haired, matronly mate was well past menopause when he--literally--bumped into her. They have several adorable human offspring.

Still. I clutch my own stomach, swallow down bile. I can't imagine carrying a baby, much less wanting to. "Dean," I soften my tone, "Are you okay with this?"

He makes a point of slowly moving over to one the benches, settling onto to it, patting the seat next to him. When I join him, he closes his eyes briefly, huffs a breath. "When Mom got pregnant with you, I was so excited. Finally, I was getting a sibling. A brother! I just knew you were a brother." He taps my knee with a grin. "But, also. I was entranced by the idea of one day growing a child inside of me. Being a grown up suddenly seemed so much more magical. I couldn't wait! But then" a sigh "Dad told me it wasn't possible. That boys can't have children." He frowns. "I don't think I even cried so much before."

I stare. "You never told me that before."

He smirks despite his suspiciously shiny eyes. "Why would I? You were my little brother. I had to show you how to be a man."

Of course he did. Still, it's good to know that, as queasy as I find the concept, pregnancy was one of Dean's secret, unattainable dreams. The knowledge makes me a little less concerned about his well being. A little. "Tell me about Gabriel."

A small smile illuminates his features. A moment later, it fades as he frowns, shifts. "Well. I never told you this, either, but I've always been attracted to guys."

"I know."

He flinches. "How?"

"Victor Henriksen." The tension between Dean and our fellow agent (before his regrettable death in an explosion by a domestic terrorist) was so palpable I sometimes thought I saw literal sparks flitting between them.

He swallows. "We never-"

"But you wanted to." I pat his shoulder.

He acknowledges this with an almost imperceptible jerk of his head, before going silent, his gaze fixed on the fluttering leaves encasing our hidden spot.

"So," I prompt, "Gabriel?"

Dean folds his hands, looks at them. "He was so handsome, so confident. So right, somehow. I knew the moment I saw him that he would pick me."

I purse my lips skeptically. "But you seemed terrified."

Sincere eyes look straight into mine. "I was. I knew my life would change forever and I wasn't ready for that."

"But-"

A finger touches my lips. "I was also terrified of how much I wanted it, wanted him." He bites his lip. "I begged you to save me because I wanted to be rescued from--I think--myself. My desperate longing for a man I'd never met, had only just seen." He rubs his hands down his legs. "I was content with my life" a glance in my direction "our life. I didn't want it to change. But, at the same time, I really, really did." His eyebrows draw together. "That doesn't make sense."

"Actually, it does," I reassure him. "You were conflicted about what you wanted. But since you knew the outcome" somehow "it just meant you were afraid of the future for two different reasons."

He nods, still looking down.

"So, tell me what happened after Gabriel put his wings around you. What did he say to you?" I bite the inside of my mouth, try not to sound as eager as I feel.

A rosy blush. "He told me that he knew I was the one as soon as he looked into my eyes and my scent only confirmed it. He said that life with him would be full of adventure and travel and family and sex and lots of pie." Dean licks his lips. "He said my life would only change as much as I wanted it to. That you would still be part of it." A sideways smirk. "And then he said that it was my choice, that he would walk away if I said no. That he might beg and plead and cajole and shower me with gifts" a chuckle "but he would never force me." A soft, glowing smile that swiftly turns nostalgically lustful, leaving me no doubt as to what happened next. Sure enough, he adds, "Well, I had to kiss him after that. Then-"

"No!" I lift my hands. "No details. I get the gist. Besides, I saw enough that day." My lip curls in disgusted remembrance. With a touch of fondness, now that I know the sex was entirely, enthusiastically consensual.

Dean laughs. "Yeah, some things should remain private. Though, woo!--The things he can do with his-"

"No!" I cover my ears.

He keeps laughing, eyes sparkling, grin wide. It's so contagious that, after a minute, I allow myself to join in. It's wonderful to once again feel like brothers, partners, best friends.

But. I settle down, catch my breath, cautiously bring up: "There's one more thing I want to know. If Gabriel said that leaving with him didn't mean leaving me, then why did you forget about me--why haven't I heard anything from you? Until now." I take a breath. "It's been four months."

Dean sobers. "I know." He caresses the gentle roundness of his tummy that must be a constant reminder of exactly how long he's been mated. "Time runs differently when you're . . . ." He pauses.

"A mate?" I supply. "Immortal?"

His eyebrows draw together. "Yeah. That. Before I met Gabriel, everything was so immediate. I was always rushing from one thing to another, trying to cram as much life as possible into a few short decades. But now that urgency is gone."

This might actually make things worse. "So you didn't have any urgency to call me?--I had no way to contact you, remember." His number was disconnected, probably for privacy reasons, since being an archangel's mate makes him a public figure.

"That's not it." Dean shakes his head. "Like I said, time runs differently now. It both feels like I've known Gabriel forever and like I only just met him. I know it's been four months, but it feels like I only just waved goodbye to you."

"You didn't wave goodbye to me."

"Whatever." He shrugs. "Anyway, there's also some kind of mating hormone. I don't remember what it's called. But it's supposed to help with intimacy or bonding or whatever. It makes it hard to think of anything but Gabriel."

This sounds strangely familiar. I've been having trouble thinking about anything but Castiel since I came to work for him. Maybe it's angel pheromones instead of mating hormones. Or it could be both.

Dean leans forward, places his hands on my shoulders. "I didn't forget about you and I really didn't mean to let so much time slip past without contacting you." He shakes his head, speaks to himself, "I still find it hard to believe it's really been so long."

"Okay," I say, standing up. "I believe you."

He hops to his own feet, claps his hands. "Great! You know, we should find you an angel, too. I've seen some hot girls around here." He snaps his fingers. "One of the redheads is still single. Anael or Jo. Or. Anael Jo? Anyway, she's smokin'!"

She's also one of Lucifer's daughters. "I don't know, Dean."

He puts an arm around me. "Come on, Sammy. You need to get some."

I shake my head, glance away. Through the doorway, I can see Gabriel and Cas wandering the gardens with a dark-skinned, green-winged archangel holding hands with an imperturbable human who must be his mate. Raphael and Joshua. Clearly still happy after millennia together. As if sensing my gaze, Castiel turns, looks at me, blue eyes blazing as brightly as the summer sun.

No. I have no interest in Anael Jo.


	9. Chuck

Dean practically dances as he pulls me out of the gazebo and towards the house. "First things first," he declares, after blowing a merry kiss to his mate, "We need to get you a better bedroom."

"It's not that bad," I protest, wondering how he knows anything about my living situation. "I mean, the bed's comfortable."

He turns, walking backwards as he raises an eyebrow. "And probably way too small for your overgrown hide."

For some reason, my mind conjures up a three-dimension image of Castiel's massive bed. I duck my head to hide my flaming cheeks. "Look, Dean, I really am perfectly comfortable where I am."

He holds the door open for me, presumably so that he can wag a finger in my face. "Nuh uh. Gabe tells me you're working as a servant." His lip curls.

"There is nothing wrong or shameful or undignified about servitude. It's honest labor!" I glare as I sweep past him.

He runs after me. "There is when your brother is head of the household!"

I throw up my arms. "I need to earn a living. I can't just sit around."

We march past a marginally open door. Dean slams it shut. "Fine. I'll find you a job. I'm sure the single angels would appreciate a go go dancer."

I huff, shake my head. 

"Okay, what about a mechanic? The garage is full of beauties." His eyes light up. Sun sprinkled grass.

"That's more your kind of thing." Did Dean manage to completely forget I'm not his carbon copy while he was gone?

He nods, biting his lip. "Speaking of, have you been taking care of my Baby?" He pauses, fidgeting.

I suppress an impulse to roll my eyes. "She's fine. Here." I lift the keys out of my pocket, toss them to him. (I've been walking around with them for days on the off chance I happened to run into my brother. I knew he'd want his car back immediately if not sooner).

He whoops, kisses the key ring. When he returns to earth, he grins at me. "You could be my bodyguard."

This time I do roll my eyes. "There is no shortage of powerful beings ready and willing to protect you. As if you even need protecting." I meet his eyes. "Look, Dean, I'm happy with my current position."

He narrows his eyes thoughtfully. A moment later, they widen. I can almost see the lightbulb going off above his perfectly spiked dark blond hair. "You should be the librarian."

I pause. That's actually really appealing. I already spend a significant amount of my (minimal) free time in Gabriel's library, discovering new treasures, running my fingers across the book spines while wandering the stacks, relaxing in one of the many easy chairs, taking advantage of the wi fi . . . . Caretaking that trove wouldn't even feel like work. More like a full-time hobby. Plus, I've been itching to organize that room for some time. The books were clearly arranged logically at one point but it's all too obvious that visitors return borrowed novels wherever there's a space instead of replacing them in the correct spot. Also, antique volumes share space and dust on the shelves with other books when they should belong in climate-controlled cabinets.

Dean claps my shoulder. "That's settled then."

I raise an eyebrow. "I didn't say anything."

He chuckles. "Your nerdy excitement spoke for you." He slings an arm around my shoulder, starts propelling down the hallway. "Come on. Let me show you your new room."

*

I expect maroon or scarlet or pink accents like those present in all of the guest bedrooms of Gabriel's mansion, but instead I'm led to a chamber as blue as Castiel's room. Robin's egg blue walls, navy curtains, lapis bedspread, paintings of oceans or mountains.

"This room is usually given to visiting members of Michael's family," a voice interrupts my thoughts.

I spin to find Chuck lugging a familiar suitcase and couple of cardboard boxes. "That would explain the color scheme." Likely all of the rooms reserved for Gabriel's family are currently taken by angels longing to meet their new stepparent or stepgrandparent (and now I'm curious as to how my thirty-year-old brother feels about that?). Makes me wonder if I'll be moved in a couple of weeks when they start to trickle out.

He smiles slightly as he sets down what I realize are the entire extent of my worldly belongings. 

I frown. "You didn't have to bring those. I was just about to go get them." I bite my lip. "I mean, after talking to Castiel."

"I wanted to." He looks down, examines the indigo swirls decorating the throw rug. "We won't see much of each other from now on, so . . . I wanted to."

That's true. We won't be working together anymore, won't have adjacent rooms, will cross paths very rarely. Unless . . . . No. I don't know how often Cas will want to see me. I kissed him and now I'm abandoning him. And. Will he see it that way? I mean, obviously, I'm going to help him find a replacement for my position. If he wants my help. Also. Well. I really need to talk to him. But--I shut my eyes--that train of thought is unrelated to my unassuming (former) coworker. I wonder if he'll take over some of my duties in the interim? Trade making beds for sitting beside Cas on the couch, planning events, delegating duties, organizing daily routines. 

When did I clench my fists so hard I would be bleeding if my nails weren't kept so short?

Chuck moves a few tentative steps closer to me. "Sam," he begins, "I don't know what exactly is going on between you and Castiel but you should really figure out what you want from him."

I freeze. "What do you mean?"

Earnest eyes peer up at me. "It's been months."

That really doesn't answer my question.

"He's been patient, but . . . ."

It clicks. "Wait. Do you think I've been stringing Cas along?"

"Haven't you?" His tone is only mildly accusatory.

"I've been working for him! It would be inappropriate. Assuming that's even what he wants. And, anyway-" I stop. Study him. "Why does this matter so much to you?"

Chuck shifts his gaze, scratches his neck. "He's a good employer, a good man."

"It's more than that." I consider the oddities of his behavior, the joy he irradiates in the presence of the angels, the way he displays love and protectiveness towards them but never idolatry (like so many groupie humans), the pride I've seen illuminating his features on more than one occasion. It's paternal. No. That's not quite right. Grandfatherly. It's grandfatherly. But that means . . . . "You're . . . . Are you . . . ." I clear my throat, narrow my eyes. "No one has ever identified the origin of the archangels. Not even the four of them. They report that they had parents but they don't remember who they were or what they look like. All anyone knows for sure is they are full brothers and that they can only mate with humans."

He shrinks. "Yes. That's-that's true."

I take advantage of the situation to loom over him. "Your age could be anywhere between 25 and 45. You chose a job as a servant--a position which allows you to hover around the angels without really being noticed. Gives you a chance to watch over them. Because they're your kids and grandkids and great-grandkids." I take a breath, step back. "Aren't they?"

A whisper. "Yes."

I nod, biting my cheek. "So, are you, like, G-"

"NO!" He stretches to his full height, eyes flashing. "No. I'm just a guy." His eyes drop. "I don't know why I caught her eye. I'm not anything special."

I consider him for a moment. Making a decision, I close the door and usher him over to one of the chairs near the window. "Tell me."

He perches on the azure velvet, wipes his hands on his lap, twitches. "It was, I don't know how many thousands of years ago. I was. Well. I might look unremarkable now, but back then I was just too pale. They thought I was cursed. And when our village didn't prosper, they concluded I must be cursing them, too. So they cast me out." He plucks at his clothes. "I was alone and starving when she found me. Amara. The way she materialized from the darkness I thought she must be the goddess of the night. But she said she was created, same as me, and she wanted to know more about humanity."

I lean forward. "What did she look like?" 

A smile. "She was so beautiful. Dark, flowing hair. High cheekbones. Her wings looked like tendrils of black smoke; each one must have been yards long."

I wish I could see this matriarch of the angelic race. "Did her wings change color after you . . . ?"

His face pinkens. "Yes. They still looked grey from a distance, but up close you could see the feathers were blue and purple and green. So beautiful."

"So. What happened?"

"We were together for five years. Five wonderful years. A village built up around us because everyone wanted to be near my pulchritudinous Amara, wanted to worship her." A quiet chuckle. "Even though she said her father was God but she was no goddess and should not be worshiped as such. We had four sons, one after the other." His smile fades. "But then, two weeks after Gabriel was born, she disappeared." He crosses his legs, uncrosses them, leans against the back of the chair, straightens. "I looked everywhere. For days, years. decades. I didn't age, didn't change, so I didn't realize how long I'd been gone until I returned to find my children adults. They didn't know me and anyone who might have was long dead." A sigh. "So I went back to searching. I sought out shamans and witches and anyone who claimed to know magic. But no one could help. But then, one day, I woke up to find this one my bedroll." He pulls a flat stone from his pocket, hands it to me.

The rectangular rock shines smoothly from millennia of rubbing fingers but I can make out very faint lines, the remains of what must have been clear writing so very long ago. The faded characters are almost recognizable, but too eroded to be entirely comprehensible. "Is that Enochian?" Castiel told me once that all angels inherently know the language, both spoken and written, even though it takes years of study for humans--even the human children of nephilim--to learn.

Chuck nods. "Amara taught me." A faraway look drifts across his face. He shakes himself, continues. "It says that Amara was imprisoned for fornicating with a human and that I must stop seeking her. And that I would never find her." He blinks. "So, I sought out my sons and looked for excuses to be near them. I quickly realized that servants can observe without being observed." A wry chuckle. "So, here I am."

A thought hits me. "So, Becky . . . ?"

He shrugs. "I get lonely. It never quite works out. Because no one can replace Amara. But sometimes I can connect with someone for a decade or two. I used to hope for more children, but I guess I'm only fertile with one person."

"I'm sorry." His seems to be a sad existence. Although, I'm not convinced it has to be. And, it really isn't my place to say, but "You should tell them."

He recoils. "No!"

"I don't mean like make an announcement on television, but you should tell your sons. Don't you think they deserve to know their father?"

He nervously scratches the upholstery. "They'll be so angry with me."

"Possibly, but I have a feeling they'll forgive you. And you'll never know unless you try."

He stands up. "Okay. But only if you go talk to Castiel and, and I don't know. Just stop making him wait."

"Agreed."


	10. Wings

Spread wings stretching across the room, feathers shimmering where sunbeams from the uncovered windows sneak inside to play with them, ebony plumage quivering in the delicate breeze of an overhead fan.

I stand in the doorway, blinking, my jaw dropped so far I will probably need to use my hands to force it closed.

It takes me far longer than it should to notice the small, white-clad, blonde woman standing between Cas and me, attempting to organize his quills. His mother. "Your feathers are so prone to snarling," she murmurs in a soothing, maternal tone. "You really need to learn to keep your wings folded on windy days. But you were just too busy displaying for that human of yours."

He turns, blue eyes sparking as he glares at her. "I wasn't . . . !"

She gently moves him back to his original position. "I saw you through the window, dear."

I can't resist the chuckle that escapes.

Mother and son rotate. Twin pairs of wide blue eyes gape at me, drop to the floor as cheeks redden. Cas might have inherited his father's dramatic coloring, but his resemblance to his mother has never been more clear.

Amy recovers first, strides over to me. A tiny hand lands on my forearm. "Why don't you take over?" she suggests.

I swallow. "With, um, grooming?" Did my voice just spike like an adolescent's?

"Exactly." She winks, slips out the door.

An indecipherable amount of time passes as I stare at the floor, will my face to cool down and my pulse to settle.

"You don't have to." Castiel sounds resigned; his wings droop behind him.

How can I tell him that my hesitation was born of how desperately much I long to bury my fingers in those soft feathers? "I want to." I speak rapidly as I try to walk sedately over to him, instead of racing to get there before he changes his mind.

The wings really are a mess, feathers tangling into knots, plumes bent and ragged, quills poking in entirely the wrong direction. Amy definitely did not exaggerate. Was he really displaying (for me)? Come to think of it, every time I snuck a glance in his direction during my conversation with Dean, Castiel's wings flared like he sensed my regard. Maybe he did.

I reach out tentatively, brush a light finger down a blue-black feather. An almost imperceptible intake of breath from the angel encourages me to keep going, to press harder. I start smoothing, straightening, arranging. Occasionally, with a pang, I pluck a feather too mangled to fix. One doesn't easily come out--has to be forcefully yanked--and I realize why when the tip wells with blood. A choked gasp from Cas confirms that this quill should have remained for many months.

"I'm so sorry!" I cry. "I didn't-I couldn't save it. Look." I thrust the mutilated feather over his shoulder.

His hand slides down mine before taking the plume. "Sam. I have lost many blood feathers over the centuries. The pain is fleeting."

I nod, even though he can't see me. That makes sense. Still, the reminder that he has hundreds of years of life behind him, which results in an astronomical difference between our ages disconcerts me. On the topic of that span, "How is it that you've never mated?" Wait. That was rude, wasn't it? "You must have had a ton of chances."

"I've attended nearly a thousand mating ceremonies," comes the calm reply. "962."

Just under a thousand mating ceremonies. That means he's met probably tens of thousands of potential mates. Not to mention all of the humans he's come into contact with over the centuries. Millions, possibly billions. And not one suited him? I cover up my shock by thrusting my hands back into his plumage, finger-combing the ebony feathers.

"I'm not an archangel, Sam." Castiel swivels his head, peers up at me. "I do not have multiple compatible mates, because I will not live to choose a replacement should my mate die. There will only ever be one human for me."

I gulp. I knew that. Theoretically. But. It sounds so severe, so final, so consequential coming from him, especially with those azure eyes burrowing into me. I focus on flattening a particularly stubborn quill. Slowly it smooths into the satiny surface, revealing an intricate blue pattern amongst the black. A faint gasp escapes me.

Cas spins, almost knocking me over with his left wing. "What is it?--Are you all right?"

I flame. "Yes. Sorry. It's just. Your wings. They're so beautiful. I almost wish-"

He cocks his head, narrows his eyes. "Wish what?"

I close my eyes for a long moment. "I almost wish they could stay like this. But they'll change, right? When you mate?"

He nods. "Our scientists believe that the purpose of the black wings on all our unmated is to attract humans. They're drawn to the darkness, the implicit loneliness, and they want to alter that, to fill our lives with companionship and joy. Also" a quirk of his lips that might almost be a fleeting smile "they want to touch them. Many humans even collect our feathers."

"I know." I've always found that practice a little creepy, like squirreling away the hair of celebrities. Still, there's a part of me that would love to have a jar filled with Castiel's stunning quills, would love to sneak my hands into it, rub the delicate feathers. Which reminds me, "Oh. I wasn't actually done unsnarling your feathers. Would you like me to finish?"

His eyes darken; his gravely voice sounds even hoarser when he acquiesces. "Why don't you get the front this time?" His Adam's apple bobs.

I swallow.

The downy undersides of Castiel's wings waver between grey and smoky blue as they shiver in the constant draft of the fan. I reach for a tangled mass, my wrist brushing against Castiel's arm in the process. I hear an intake of breath, but his face remains impassive.

The feathers unjumble under my ministrations, straightening far too rapidly for my preference, and all too soon I'm merely caressing the plumage, hoping that Cas won't immediately notice. I lean closer, nudge my palms between quills until they're circling, stroking the joints of the wings. So soft, yet so powerful. So utterly impressive.

A twist of air has me glancing down to find Cas trembling before me.

I step back, study his face. Blown pupils, flushed cheeks, pink-lipped mouth open with deepened breaths. He's devastatingly, temptingly gorgeous. I move one hand to frame to his jaw, bend down.

A strong hand pushes against my chest, stopping me. "Not unless you mean it," he whispers. "Not unless I can keep you."

He's asking me to be his mate. My heart trills a delighted affirmative. I don't know when I fell in love with this beautiful, magnificent, brilliant angel but I am certain in a sudden, wonderful epiphany that I want to spend forever with him. I want to experience life and all it entails by his side. As an added bonus, I will never have to leave my doting brother. Dean. Who is pregnant.

I freeze.

Castiel's face falls, hope draining visibly from his features. He ducks his head. "I understand."

I leap forward, grasp his hand. "No! I-It's just-My brother is expecting a baby and I can't-I-" I stop rambling, close my eyes, settle my thoughts. "I want to be with you. I really, really do. I love you. It's only-would it be okay with you if I don't-if we don't have kids?" He regards me, face still shuttered. I add, "Or, you know, if we adopt."

He blinks thoughtfully at me. "You fear pregnancy."

I nod frantically. "It's just not an appealing prospect."

"But you do want children?" he asks, "With me?"

"Like I said, we can adopt. You already adopted Jack, so I know you're a great dad." I bite my lip, nervously. I really hope this is an acceptable compromise.

He nods. "We can do that."

My breath comes out in a relieved whoosh.

"Also, I can have kids." He examines my confused face, clarifies, "Motherhood has always been an option for me."

My eyes widen. My soul expands. This is an unexpected boon. Castiel can carry my children; I will get to see him grow round with my babies. He's in my arms in an instant, feet off the ground as I spin him, both of us laughing.

I slow. Our eyes catch, understanding sparking between us. I lower my lips to his.

Fire. Electricity. Velvet. Honey. I am nothing but sensation until I open my eyes to find our clothes strewn about us in wrinkled heaps. 

Cas looks up at me, biting his lips. "Are you ready?" His wings flip, flap.

"Yes," I breathe. I dive back into our kiss, lowering him carefully to the floor. Wings and legs spread out appealingly beneath me. But. "Um, Cas? I've never been with a guy. I'm not quite sure how it works. But I think-I think we need supplies."

He slithers out from under me, flips me over with an ease that reminds me that seraphs are far stronger than humans. He straddles me, leans over my body. "We don't need anything," he rumbles before he presses his lips to my neck.

My gasp becomes a moan. "I don't want to hurt you."

"You won't," he mutters into my ear. "My body recognized you as my mate the moment I first scented you, maybe even the first time I had you in my arms, when I prevented you from interfering with Gabriel's mating." He slides down my chest until he hovers just above my groin. "My body prepared for you, changed for you. I'm slick and open just from your proximity." He proves this by easily sinking down onto me.

So intense, so erotic, so heavenly. So much more intoxicating than any of my experiences with women. He bounces, swivels, shimmies. My brain short circuits when he scratches lightly down my chest, swirls a finger around nipples that were never previously so sensitive. I don't resist when he pulls me into a sitting position, wraps legs and wings around me.

Feathers block the light, cocooning us in darkness. Thrust, kindle, spark, kiss. Engulf.

I throw my head back in the ecstasy of my orgasm, my pleasure only increasing when I brush against yielding plumage. Something warm splashes my stomach as Cas moans my name. I enfold him tighter in my arms, tangle my lips with his.

I don't move until I feel wings move from around me, gusting the air, returning light to my surroundings. I blink, help my angel to his feet. He shyly turns around, stretches his wings. "How do they look?"

Intricate swirls of white and multiple shades of blue, accompanied by splashes of green and purple. "Stunning." The word barely comes out, so I clear my throat. "They look amazing, Cas."

I didn't think I could prefer his midnight hues, but this bright, vivid plumage inspires awe, admiration, affection.

It mean he's mine, and I'm his.


End file.
